


feel the outside turning in

by anthrop



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Astral Projection, Body Horror, Christmas Truce Gift Exchange, Gen, POV Second Person, a more realistic take on ghosts and ghost fighting, less punching and more horrific static monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthrop/pseuds/anthrop
Summary: You remember falling out of the portal, and the dizzying twist in perception as you watched yourself fall. You watched the awful jitter of your body’s limbs, writhing like a dying insect, your white jumpsuit burnt black and smoking. You watched Sam and Tucker stagger away, the flashing lights carving terror deep into their faces.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatalystOfTheSoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalystOfTheSoul/gifts).



> Written for the Christmas Truce gift exchange over Tumblr! Catalyst wanted a more realistic take on ghosts, which obviously means brutalizing Danny a whole bunch, right? Right. AO3 really hates italics for some reason, so please excuse any weird spacing I might have missed.
> 
> Title comes from Tool's "[Forty Six & 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tja6_h4lT6A)," because.

You died in the accident. They tried to keep it from you, but you remember when it happened. How it happened. It’s a fact they can’t hide, or soften. You died, and then you woke up again.

You remember it like a dream. Blurry and distorted, jumping from one rough image to the next. You don’t remember the pain. You do remember the lights, cool gray shadows burnt to ash the moment your hand touched the button. White-hot electricity arcing down the silver throat of the portal. Neon green ectoplasm boiling out of a hole in thin air. Strobing crimson, errors and warnings and readouts in your peripheral all the color of blood.

You remember falling out of the portal, and the dizzying twist in perception as you _watched_ yourself fall. You watched the awful jitter of your body’s limbs, writhing like a dying insect, your white jumpsuit burnt black and smoking. You watched Sam and Tucker stagger away, the flashing lights carving terror deep into their faces.

It all happened without any sound. Or, that’s how you remember it. They said you screamed, when you pressed them, before your heart went nuclear. You watched your body jerk and skitter, wounds opening like grotesque flowers down your skin as the jumpsuit burned away. You watched Sam and Tucker mouth your name soundlessly. Your memory is strangely… passive. You remember understanding that you were dead, but it had been like reading something out loud in English. _He pressed the button, and it killed him_. No emotional connection, no vested interest in what happened to the poor, stupid protagonist. It happened, now turn to chapter three.

You didn’t pay much attention to what came after, not until your parents thundered down the stairs. Your body and your friends weren’t important, then. Instead, you looked away, and you saw the portal for  the first time. Active, blinding, _aware_. Raw, alien power pressed up against an invisible skin, held back by nothing more than surface tension.

You should have been terrified. You should have been screaming like Sam and Tucker. You were dead, and there was a hole in reality in your basement. Either one of those was cry-like-a-baby scary.

But you were not afraid.

You were… drawn. Pulled. An invisible force tugging at your wrist. A voice just out of earshot, calling your name. Two magnets, straining to touch.

This is the only thing you remember with perfect clarity: you held out your hand.

* * *

 It’s been a month since then. You’re lucky to be alive.

That’s what everybody keeps telling you, over and over again. You’re lucky to be alive. You’re lucky you aren’t paralyzed. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your hand. You’re lucky you didn’t fry your brain. You’re lucky your heart didn’t actually go bang.

You’re lucky.

You’re lucky.

You’re lucky.

You are so _sick_ of people telling you how _lucky_ you are.

You want to slap the pity off of everyone’s faces. The doctors, your parents, your sister, your friends. All of them. They come into your room on tiptoe and they whisper and they hover their hands just over your skin, like they think you’ll shatter if you startle. You wants to scream at everybody to just _go away_ and leave you alone, but you don’t have the strength to do more than rasp your please and thank yous when they care for you hand and foot.

The accident killed you, and sometimes some awful sullen bitter monstrous part of you wished you’d stayed that way. Not out of any suicidal desperation-- although, yeah, sometimes it does sound easier to just not _be_ for a while-- but because it would have been _easier_. You didn’t die for keeps, so now you have to heal, and healing takes _forever_.

You want to cut your hand off, what left there is of it. Just cut the wreckage off and get a prosthetic instead. It’s so misshapen now. There’s so much _missing_. You’re glad the exit wound, the bad one, is on your back. You can barely move because of it, and the pain leaves you gasping and in tears once the meds start to wear off, but at least you can’t see it.

You’re lucky, they tell you. In time, the nerve damage will heal. You might never get full feeling back in your limbs, but it won’t be so bad. It will heal, or you’ll get used to it. It will get better, or you will become numb to your numbness. It will become an afterthought.

You’re lucky, they tell you. Bones heal. Instead of your broken arm, it could have been a broken neck. Instead of a vertebral fracture, you could be paralyzed. Your ribs could have pierced your lungs. Your bones will heal in time.

You’re lucky, they tell you. Sure the entry and exit wounds are bad, but with a few skin grafts and a lot of physical therapy, you’ll recover fine. The rest of the burns aren’t half as bad in comparison. Second degree mostly, barely disfiguring at all.

You’re lucky, they tell you. You were dead as dead gets. Nobody’s sure how long, not even you. It was like a dream, after all, and time is funny in dreams. And it wasn’t like your friends or your parents dropped everything to find a stopwatch either. They were a little busy trying to bring you back. You were dead for minutes, plural, that’s for sure. You’re lucky they brought you back at all. You’re so _lucky_ they brought you back.

It’s your parents who tell you you’re lucky the most. They built the machine, designed it to tear a hole between two dimensions to study impossible beings. The portal should have vaporized you, or turned you inside out, or inflicted terrible mutations.

You’re so lucky, they tell you. Don’t you understand? It could have been so much worse. You could be dead.

You could be a ghost.

* * *

Since the day your parents declared you stable enough for visits, Sam and Tucker have been by every day. They tiptoe, and they whisper, and they hover. Afraid you’ll shatter if you startle. Guilt has put shadows under their eyes and lines at the corners of their mouths. They were there when it happened, after all. You pressed the button, but Sam wanted the picture and Tucker believed you when you said the portal didn’t work. Stupid kids, that’s  what anyone would say. You were just three stupid kids.

Still, you’re glad to see them. They’re your best friends. They distract you, keep you from clawing at the walls with boredom. And they keep your secret too.

“Hey guys,” you say with a little wave. You don’t use your real hand.

Tucker hisses through his teeth, leaning back against the door to shut it quicker. Sam practically trots over to your bed, eagerly sidestepping around the chairs and chunky machinery that’s more jury-rigged and Fenton-stickered than legal. Ectoradiation, virtually harmless to humans, plays havoc on anything electrical. You're sweating it out, wisps of cold green mist on your every exhale. Tucker still hasn't quite forgiven you for turning his cell phone into a paper weight.

She doesn’t quite touch your spectral hand, split from the real you at the elbow, but wiggles her fingers in the empty space between. “This is so cool,” she whispers, her eyes bright.

“I’m getting better at controlling it,” you say, and demonstrate by stretching yourself a little farther out of your body, raising both ghostly hands up over your head. There’s no buffer in the motion, just a sudden flicker, and then pale green limbs float translucently above you.

The temperature in the room plunges, like someone opened a window in the middle of winter. You see Sam’s bare arms break out in goosebumps, and a white cloud plumes from Tucker’s mouth as he sighs. “You still haven’t told your parents, have you?”

“Are you kidding me?” You drop your spectral hands, shiver a little as your ghost rejoins your flesh. It’s like fingers tracing the tingly edges of your skin where your nerves start to work again. You want to pull away from yourself every time you come back together. “You see how freaked out they are already. If they thought there was something worse wrong with me--”

“There _is_.” Tucker plops into a chair by the foot of your bed. “You’re astral projecting, dude. Or like, baby stepping your way up to that. What if you get _stuck?_ ”

“Then I’ll find a way to fix it,” you reply. “If I can’t, _then_ I’ll tell them. In the meantime, this is the only fun I get to have when you guys aren’t here.”

Sam sits too, swinging her spider-shaped bag into her lap. “C’mon Tucker, what’s the harm? He’s been doing it for weeks now.”

“I’m just saying,” Tucker says, holding up his hands defensively. “The portal is seriously creepy, and you got a full hit of whatever’s splashing around in it. Don’t you think this could lead to something, I dunno, a little less cool and a lot more permanent?”

“Whatever,” you say. You've tried very hard not to think about _permanent_. So you can astral project a little, or whatever other goofy term Sam can pull out of her weird Skulk ‘N’ Lurk books. It’s fun, and it doesn’t hurt at all. If anything, you think you feel a little better every time you really exert yourself. A little stronger.

You change the subject. “Anything happen at school today?”

This question earns you two very different reactions. Sam perks up, downright smug and proud all wrapped together in a pointed look she levels Tucker’s way. Tucker makes a face like he just got a noseful of your dirty bandages.

“Something _great_ happened at school today,” Sam declares.

“Something traumatic,” Tucker mutters.

You blink, gingerly folding your hands together. It's tough with the cast on, but you manage. “What happened?”

“I got the cafeteria menu changed!”

“Um. Yay?”

“ _Nope_ ,” Tucker snaps, popping the P. “It’s the polar opposite of yay and half the school is up in arms about it.”

“Only because they need a little time to adjust,” Sam retorts. “Once they see the benefits of an all-natural vegan diet they’ll understand how much healthier it is!”

“Oh no.” An image of Dash Baxter looming furiously a plastic lunch tray full of topsoil and carrot juice springs to mind. You’re glad you weren’t there to be his punching bag-- although, you’d probably be off his list, now that you’re all tragically damaged. Huh. Maybe it would have been worth seeing his face after all.

“We’re _fourteen_ ,” Tucker says, with the doggedness of someone who’s said this several times already. “The only people who care about healthy alternative diets are crazed vegetable lovers like you and literally _no one else_.”

They quickly fall into a heated bickering you tune out, opting to look out the window instead. You watch thin white clouds scud across a sun-bleached sky, a pair of crows swing in and out of view. The warm weather has held late into autumn, each day waxing beautiful and bright, and you’re stuck in bed waiting for your stupid body to heal.

Your mom checks in on things not long after, announcing her presence with a two-knuckle warning rap on the door as she opens it. Sam and Tucker hastily pretend they weren’t arguing about anything and busy themselves with pulling homework out of their backpacks. There’s a strict rule of Don’t Upset Danny in place, where anything that isn’t simpering whispers and goody-good heartfelt nothings are frowned upon. You’d puke, if your parents wouldn’t flip out and rush you to the ER.

“Having a good visit?” She asks, then shivers. “ _Brrr_ , is it cold in here or it just me?”

“We're okay!” Sam replies, too quickly. There are still goosebumps all down her arms, but only your breath mists, as sickly green as it’s been since the accident. Your parents think it’s a good sign, how cleanly you seem to be expelling the ectoradiation. If only they knew about your little hobby.

Your mom sets a little paper cup with pills and a tall glass of tragically beige slush on the swivel tray table beside your bed. Sam and Tucker side-eye the glass, biting their lips, clenching their fingers around pencils and spiral bound notebooks. You can see their guilt in the hunch of their shoulders, remembering too late that you can’t even eat vegetables or meat right now, maybe not for awhile still.

“The _whole_ glass this time, sweetie,” your mother orders, rolling the tray over your bed. Because of your back, you’re not allowed to move much, not even to scratch an itch higher than your sternum. You look at the glass with dread curling your lip, already feeling the clotted oatmeal texture settling coldly on your tongue.

_God_ you miss real food.

* * *

The next day Sam and Tucker come over again after school. Sam’s still smug and Tucker looks a little sick of it, so you try to steer the conversation to anything that won’t end up in Bickerville, population: two stubborn jerks. You aren’t successful.

“Three people in algebra went to the nurse’s office after lunch,” Tucker snaps, after Sam’s had a minute to rhapsodize over how Great and Wonderful her menu change will be for Casper High. “ _Three_ , Sam. In one class!”

“They were either looking for an excuse to get out of algebra, or it was something unrelated. A little broccoli won’t _kill_ you.”

“Last time I checked, food allergies were a real thing that do, in fact, have a chance of spontaneously developing at any age.”

“I don’t even know what your deal is!” Sam’s careful not to shout so as not to draw your parents, but there’s a twist to her lip that screams disdain. “You barely even eat cafeteria food because your mom always makes you lunch, so what do you care if I changed the menu?”

“ _Guys_ ,” you snap, your voice cracking with the effort. They both flinch, look at you with equally guilty expressions. “Can you not? For like, one day? I would murder somebody for a burger _or_ a salad at this point, okay? So can you just leave your food fight for when you guys aren’t here?”

Tucker’s lip twitches. Good. You’re proud of that pun. “Sorry, Danny.”

“Yeah,” Sam offers you an apologetic shrug. “It’s my bad, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, and wiggle your ghost hands at her until she laughs.

* * *

The next day, Sam doesn’t look smug anymore.

“Something’s happened,” you say, nodding toward the window. Your neck is stiff with inactivity. You’ve got a desk calendar on your nightstand, counting down the days until you can start physical therapy. “At school. What happened?”

Sam doesn’t answer, so Tucker does after a moment’s hesitation. “A lot of people are getting sick. Not _bad_ sick, but there were a lot of empty desks today. The teachers don’t want to call it food poisoning, but….”

“I shouldn’t have expected this to work,” Sam bites out, her voice thick. “A public school can’t handle Mystery Meat Mondays, so why would a vegetarian menu be any better?”

Tucker bites his lip. “It’s not your fault--”

“Of course it is! I was the only one pushing for a change on a menu that’s been the same for _fifty years_.”

You reach for her hand. You run cold now, and you both flinch at the contact. Her skin feels like touching a hot stovetop, but you hang on anyway. “Sam, you’re not at fault, and you’re not in trouble. Somebody on the school board or whatever took a shortcut, got bad food from some shady grocery store dumping expired cabbages or whatever. Nobody has any right to blame you.”

You weren’t there, you can’t be there, but you’re fourteen. You know teenagers can be cruel. You know people will point fingers without thinking. Sam isn’t one to blame herself without someone else doing it first. Her jaw is tight, but she doesn’t let go of your hand either.

“Thanks,” she says, and you smile.

* * *

The next day, Sam isn’t there. Tucker doesn’t bother beating around the bush.

“She’s sick,” he says, dropping his backpack to the floor so he can pace. “She started throwing up at the end of fifth period. Half the school’s sick, probably more. There were only ten people in Lancer’s class, everyone else was sick, or their parents made them stay home. It’s on the news, people are being hospitalized--”

“I don’t think it’s the food.”

Tucker falters, his glasses half-off his face, his hat askew. He squints at you, slipping his glasses back on. “What?”

“I don’t think it’s food poisoning.”

“You-- dude.” He shakes his head. “The menu changes, and three days later there’s a food poisoning panic sweeping the school. What else could it be?”

“I dunno,” you admit. “I just have a feeling there’s something else going on. Something worse than bad cabbages.”

Normally, Tucker would quip something about how there’s nothing worse in the world than bad cabbages, but he doesn’t say anything. It must be serious. It must be scary.

“Is Sam okay?” you ask, softly.

He shrugs, sighs, takes his glasses off again to rub them clean with the hem of his shirt. “She’d stopped puking by the time the EMTs got to her--”

“EMTs?” You echo, alarmed. “She’s at the hospital?”

“Probably not. Her parents are overbearing, right? They probably have a specialist on speed dial or something.” Another shrug as he puts his glasses on. He won’t meet your eyes. Ever since the accident, he hasn’t liked meeting your eyes. Your pupils don’t work quite right, stuck blown so wide so there’s just a thin ring of blue left. Your night vision’s never been better. “She seemed okay before she left.”

You look out your window, at the clouds and the birds and the wide blue sky, and feel a tug at your arrhythmic heart. Magnets, straining to touch.

There’s something out there. You’re sure of it. Something came out of the portal, made its home in the cafeteria of Casper High. There are more ghosts than you in this city now.

“She’ll be okay,” Tucker says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself too. “It’s just a little food poisoning, right?”

“Right,” you say. You don’t take your eyes off the sky.

* * *

The next day, Friday, Tucker comes alone again. His mouth is a thin line, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t look like he slept much.

“Sam wasn’t at school,” he says. He takes the same seat he always does, even though Sam isn’t there to sit by your nightstand. “More people were absent, or left early. Even the teachers are getting sick, and I know for a _fact_ none of them touched any of the rabbit food. This is serious. Nobody’s getting better. My parents want me to stay home next week. There’s talk of quarantine, or legit, actual poisoning.”

“I’m gonna try something.”

“You-- huh?”

“I’m gonna try something,” you repeat patiently. “And if it works, I need you to not freak out.”

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Uh. Okay?”

“And you can’t tell my parents.”

Tucker’s a little more reluctant to agree to that, but caves eventually. He even stands up and locks the bedroom door, which has been a _massive_ no-no since the accident. “So what’s the big secret? Gonna try and sneak out of the house or something?”

You glare at him. “ _No_.” Then you hesitate, considering. “Well, sort of?”

Tucker immediately sobers. “Whoa, hey, I was _kidding_. You can’t even make down the stairs on your own yet, dude.”

“Well it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on using my stupid meat legs then.”

“Huh?”

“Just shut up and let me concentrate. I’ve only done this once before.”

“Done _what?_ ”

“Shh!”

You shut your eyes, lean back against you pillow pile, and do your very best to fall out of yourself. Breathe in, breathe out. Muscles relaxing. Think of sand draining down an hourglass, of slippery silk scarves, of mud squashed underfoot on a rainy spring day. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t think about the tension trapped between your shoulder blades, the aches and itches of healing muscle and bone, raw bed sores chaffing against the sheets. Breathe in, breathe out. There’s so little left you can do, but you can at least control your lungs. In, and out. In, and out. In… and out…. In… and _out_ \--

“ _Holy shit!_ ”

Tucker, slack-jawed and standing like he’s not sure if he should bolt from your room or not, stares up at you. _Up_ at you, because you’ve slipped cleanly out of your stupid busted body and are now floating two feet from the ceiling. “ _Oh my god,_ ” he whispers. “Oh my god, how are you _doing_ that?”

_{I’m not really sure. It kind of happened on accident before, so I thought I’d try to do it on purpose.}_ This is the first time you’ve tried talking like this. It doesn’t feel like anything. You’re not even sure you’re making any sound, to be honest.

He picks up the chair he knocked over, not quite taking his eyes off of you. “Does it… hurt?”

_{Not at all. Probably because I don’t have any nerves right now.}_ You twist and stretch luxuriously, like a cat in a sunbeam, just to _move_. You can’t feel anything at all, which is both a relief and disorienting as hell.

“Augh, stop that. You’re gonna give me epilepsy.”

_{Pretty sure epilepsy isn’t communicable, dude.}_ You hum, and Tucker slaps his hands over his ears. _{Oh, so you can hear me.}_

“Of course I can hear you! And you just made a sound like, I dunno. Ow.” He rubs his ears, glaring up at you. “Like ripping up a whole roll of tin foil, maybe.”

_{Really? Sounded normal to me.}_ You drop lower, curling around the chrome machinery that has fenced you in ever since the hospital released you into your parents’ dubious ectobiological know-how. _{Does my voice sound different?}_

“Yeah. Static-y. Also kind of like you’re talking inside a subway tunnel, maybe?” He ducks away from you, inching toward your body. “Jesus, Danny. Are you-- are you _dead?_ ”

_{If I was, that heart-rate monitor would be freaking out. My body’s fine. I’m just not home right now.}_

“Jesus,” Tucker mutters again, brushing his fingers down your human arm. “Sam would love this.”

_{That’s why I’m doing it.}_ He looks at you curiously. The pale, flickering light of your ghost stains his face green, hides his eyes in a bright reflection. You float a little closer, see two pits for eyes and glitching slash of a mouth doubled in his glasses. _{Whoa. I’m nightmare fuel.}_

“A little bit.” Tucker laughs, shakily, and edges away before you can brush against him. It’s hard to stay still. You think of sharks, always swimming, always moving to keep water flushing through their gills. If they stop moving, they die. “So, not that this isn’t both amazing and a little bit terrifying, how is this going to impress Sam if she isn’t here?”

_{That’s not what I meant. I think I know what’s causing all the food poisoning.}_

Tucker tilts his head. “The food is _bad_. That’s what causes food poisoning.”

**_{No.}_ ** He winces, taking another step away. _{Sorry. I mean, I don’t think it’s just that. I think… I think there’s something like me at school, making people sick.}_

“You think-- you think a _ghost_ is doing this?” His tone is doubtful, a little bit incredulous. You flicker down to his eye-level, loop around him like a snake cornering a mouse. His skin doesn’t burn you now, but he hisses through his teeth, goosebumps bristling down his neck.

_{_ ** _Look_ ** _at me. This isn’t normal. This is crazy. And half the student body has come down with food poisoning in a couple of days. Does that sound normal to you?}_

“No, but--”

_{There’s something out there. I know there is. Something came through the portal, and I’m gonna find it. My body’s too messed up to go anywhere, so I’ll have to go like this.}_

“Go? Go, as in….” He trails off, eyes widening. “Danny, no, c’mon. School’s like six blocks away. People will see you.”

_{I can’t just sit here. I have to do something.}_

“What, float aggressively at the salad bar?”

You untwist from around Tucker, ignore his shivering to look at your translucent hands. _{If it’s a ghost, it’ll be like me. If it won’t listen, I think I can hurt it.}_

“Since when do you hurt anything? You’ve never swung a punch as long as I’ve known you.”

**_{Tucker.}_ **

He grimaces, rubbing his ears. “Ow, ow, okay, _ow_. I’ll quit talking sense. _Shit_ , ow.”

_{Sorry.}_ You really are. You have no idea what you sound like to him. It’s clear you’re not on the same wavelength as he is-- and maybe that’s literal. You don’t even know what you’re _made_ of right now. _{I’ll try not to be long. I might not even make it to school. Just, keep my parents out of my room til I get back. Tell them I’m asleep or something.}_

He sighs, and walks over to your bedroom door to unlock it again. “This is gonna go so badly.”

You don’t answer. If you answer, it might come true. So you phase through your window-- you expect resistance, but you’re nothing right now, you’re a flicker of green static and smoke in the vague shape of a person-- and fly toward Casper High.

* * *

Colors are not what they should be.

You didn't notice it in your room, dismissing the strange hues as just light from your ghost. But it's more than that, out here in Amity Park. The sky is not blue, the grass is not green. Concrete and asphalt are the clean blues of an aquarium; brick and brownstone the bright pinks of a doll aisle in a toy store. The people and cars below you-- far below, you didn’t mean to fly so high but your control is flimsy at best-- are faded in comparison. Gray and beige, unimportant addons that muddy a sunset that would be honestly breathtaking, if you had lungs.

But there’s no time to marvel. You could be snapped back into your body at any moment. You look away from the horizon and find the school grounds laid out like a patchwork quilt below. Funny. You shouldn’t be here yet, but here you are.

You phase through a second story window, find yourself in an empty classroom. In the hallway the lights flicker as you pass under them, hard zaps that short out the odd bulb. A janitor in an adjoining hallway tuts, mutters a worn-out curse under his breath, and pushes his mop along the dirty tile. He doesn’t see you. You look at your hands, see translucent green fingers, the pale suggestion of bone. It’s creepy. _You_ are creepy. Why didn’t he see you?

Later. You’re at the cafeteria doors now.

The lights are all off, which surprises you. It isn’t that late in the day. Shouldn’t there be somebody here, wiping down the tables or washing the lunch trays? Not like you’d know for sure; you didn’t have a chance to join any after-school programs or anything before you got zapped. You drift between empty tables, cross into the kitchen, and go _cold_.

You have no skin to prickle, no nerves to shudder, no muscles to clench. But it’s a feeling like an icy hand pressed to your throat all the same. A tightness, and fear that brings a glass-cut clarity to your vision.

You are not alone.

_{Hello?}_ You call out.

Nothing, at first. And then, a shape etches into existence by the deep fryers. Broad, sloped shoulders. Forearms thick with the memory of muscle. Yellow rubber gloves. An older woman’s face; jowled, wrinkled, anger pinching the red pits of her eyes.

_{What are you doing back here? Children aren’t_ **_allowed_ ** _in the kitchen.}_ Her voice pitches and warps, like messing with the equalizer on a music player. She sounds sweet and furious in turns.

_{Sorry. Um. My name is Danny. Who are you?}_

Instead of answering, she flickers briefly out of sight, reappears only a few feet away from you. Is that what you looked like to Tucker? _{You shouldn’t be here,_ **_boy_** _.}_

_{I know,}_ you say quickly, inching backward. She doesn’t seem to notice. _{I just-- I heard a lot of kids were getting sick at school. I wanted to see why.}_

_{Of course they’re sick. Somebody_ **_changed_ ** _the menu. The menu’s been the same for_ **_fifty years_** _, and did anyone get sick from it before?}_ As she speaks, she flickers like a rewinding VHS tape, green-white static dragging across her form. With every shouted word-- crinkling, crunching tin foil-- she rips apart a little more.

You could quip about the dubious quality of the previous menu, but you’re sensing this isn’t a woman-- _ghost--_ you want to upset. _{What’s wrong with a change in the menu? Fifty years is a long time for kids to eat the same brand of chicken nuggets, isn’t it?}_

**_{THE MENU DOES NOT CHANGE!}_ ** She backhands you without warning, and it feels like nothing and it feels like taking a brick to your temple. You don’t fall down, but--

_\--looking up at your bedroom ceiling, Tucker rubbing his chin in your peripheral, shooting nervous glances at your bedroom door--_

\--it’s _like_ falling. It’s like falling apart, like the click-and-hum of a box TV being turned off, for just an instant. You’d been in your bedroom, in your body again, and then you came back. You’re on the floor, legless, coiled like a snake. You have no bones to break now, which is a thought  that brings a bizarre, giggling relief to the back of your mind.

The woman, the long-dead lunch lady, looms over you like a mad dog. She might not be frothing at the mouth but there’s electricity sparking in her eyes, her white hair frizzing from her hair net, and her hands are reaching--

**_{Stop!}_ **

And she does.

You stare up at her, at your outstretched hand. You had swung blindly, wanting only to push her away. Instead, you…

Her hand is _gone_. Cut off at the wrist, static itching your ears and something thick and green dripping from a wound that shouldn’t be _real_. She looks at you, stunned. Her rage is gone as quickly as it came.

_{How did you do that?}_ She asks, her voice sweet as caramel.

_{I-- I don’t know.}_ You float up again, legs appearing in an afterthought. It should feel like something, but there’s not even a tingle. _{I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-- I didn’t know that would happen.}_

_{We aren’t in the Ghost Zone. You shouldn’t have been able…}_ She looks at the staticky, oozing stump, eyes narrowing. She bares her teeth in a snarl that sounds like hailstones on a tin roof, and a new hand-- grows? Appears? It isn’t there and then it is, gloveless, thick green fingers painted over a white bone fist. A ring of syrupy green bracelets her wrist, dripping down the back of her hand as she drops her arm. She looks at you with that same narrow-eyed, growling expression. _{You should_ **_not_ ** _have done that.}_

_{I’m really sorry,}_ you squeak, and bolt out of the kitchen.

What follows is not a chase, per se. You don’t comically scramble out of the cafeteria and down the hall, the lunch lady bellowing after with a frying pan in her regrown hand. You’re in the kitchen, and then you’re in a classroom, and then you’re by your old locker, and then you’re halfway through a door. She’s there with you in every jump, her smeared hand just shy of your throat again and again and again, until she catches you.

It feels exactly like someone choking you--

_\--your bedroom ceiling, the racing beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, Tucker’s face inches from yours as he calls your name--_

\--and you gasp for air you don’t need, slap and kick at her fruitlessly, and her eyes are bright as headlights above a manic grin filled with too many teeth. _{You’re in my_ **_way_ ** _,}_ she growls. _{There are children that need my help, children that need a good meal. The menu has been changed and_ **_I WON’T STAND FOR IT._** _}_

_{Please,}_ you choke out. Six blocks away, you can hear your heart monitor panicking, can see the red gleam of your mother’s goggles as she bends over your bed. _{You’re-- gonna kill--}_

She laughs. _{You? Idiot boy, you’re already_ **_dead_** _.}_

_{No….}_

_{I’ll send you back. Go hide in your lair, put a little_ **_meat_ ** _on your bones. You’re too_ **_weak_ ** _to beat me.}_ She squeezes tighter, and you can feel your body seize up back home, fighting off a smothering hand that isn’t there for it to struggle against. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t understand. If she doesn’t stop you think you might die--

**_{Get OFF!}_ ** You bury your feet in her belly and _kick_ as hard as you can. She grunts, a scrambled and dizzying sound, and disappears in a hiss of static.

You don’t wait for her to come back, bolting for the ceiling, and for home.

* * *

Naturally, your parents are panicking when you come back to your body. It takes almost twenty minutes before they calm down enough to leave you alone, finally convinced you’re okay, that it had just been a nightmare. You hated the way their faces had twisted, when you’d lied and said you’d dreamed about the portal, but it was the only thing you could think of to say. Either way, they leave you alone.

More importantly, they don’t make Tucker go home.

“What happened?” He hisses as soon as the door is shut again.

You shake your head, still a little out of it. Your body feels so much heavier, so much more like dead weight, now that you’ve flown. “I was right. There’s a ghost at school, messing with the cafeteria.”

“Is that why you went all…?” He mimes gagging, going cross-eyed and flapping his hands. You smile, glad he’s there to joke about it. It isn’t so scary, now that you’re nowhere near her.

“Yeah. She was trying to send me back to the Ghost Zone.”

“Is that what it’s called? The other side of the portal?”

“I guess so.” You sit up, feathering a curse between you clenched teeth. Now that you’ve felt real painlessness, your half-healed body feels so much worse. You feel like you just fell out of the portal all over again.

At once, Tucker’s by your bed, his hand hovering over your arm. The heat of his palm, an inch above your skin, is almost soothing. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just-- just sick of this.” His expression turns pitying, and you resist the urge to shove him away. “I’m going back.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Not now! Tonight, after my parents have calmed down. And this time you’re coming with.”

He holds up his hands, laughing. “Oh man, no way. I’m not taking _one step_ into an actual _haunted_ cafeteria. Don’t give me that look, Danny Fenton. I’m not gonna do it!”

You grin.

* * *

“If this ghost doesn’t kill me, I’m gonna kill you.”

You laugh, floating languorously over Tucker’s head as he fidgets by the cafeteria’s back door. _{Relax, man. She’s gonna go after me. I don’t even think she’ll be able to touch you.}_

“Have you ever watched a _single_ horror movie in your life? Ghosts don’t need to touch you to wreck your shit.” He huffs, kicking the door. “It’s locked. Oh well, guess I get to go home. Good luck with your epic spectral night fight, tell me how it goes in the morning!”

_{Oh my god, you colossal weenie. Let me try something.}_ He dodges out of the way as you swoop low, phasing clumsily through the metal door. Horror movies, right? If a ghost thinks about it hard enough, they can interact with the human world, right? You bite your lip, fumble for the lock on the inside, and think, **_turn_**.

When the lock clicks Tucker looks torn between dread and amazement. He settles for sarcasm. “Oh, of course you can do that.”

_{What, no golf clap?}_ You don’t stick around for his witty retort, phasing the rest of the way through the door. It opens a moment later, and Tucker slinks through like he’s expecting an alarm to go off. The Fenton Thermos is uncapped in one hand, humming faintly. You can feel it tugging on you, distractingly, like the portal does when your parents have it open.

“Is she… here?” He whispers, his eyes darting around the ceiling.

_{I can’t see her. I don’t think that means much though.}_

“That’s super comforting. I hope you realize that.”

You roll your eyes, and stiffen. There’s that feeling again, icy cold and _aware_. **_{Hide.}_ **

Tucker flinches, but moves quickly for a pair of rubber trash cans by the door. He ducks behind them-- at least to your funny vision-- out of sight. Just in time, too.

The lunch lady appears, hovering a foot above a table, looking murderous. **_{You again.}_ **

_{Me again.}_

She lurches toward you, walking on thin air, walking like it hurts to move. Good. _{What do you_ **_want_** _, boy?}_

_{I want you to leave the school alone. You’re gonna_ **_kill_ ** _somebody if you don’t stop.}_

**_{THE MENU HAS BEEN CHANGED--}_ **

_{This isn’t gonna fix the menu!}_ You throw your hand out. She stops, her bright eyes slits. _{You’re gonna get the school shut down at this rate. Is that what you want?}_

_{The menu,}_ she repeats doggedly.

You sigh. Maybe your parents’ obsession theory is right after all. Maybe this lady gets what you’re saying but can’t stop herself. Maybe you’re speaking gibberish to her. Either way, this has to stop. _{I know. If I get the menu changed back, will you stop?}_

She laughs; a slow, seeping sound. _{Idiot boy. You’re_ **_dead_** _.}_

_{So are you. What’s it matter?}_

_{The living won’t_ **_see_** _. They won’t_ **_listen_** _.}_

_{You’re wrong.}_ And you lunge for her, swinging your fists together to strike her in the chest. She makes a noise like crumpling newspaper and flickers out of sight, but sight doesn’t mean as much as it used to. She’s still here, still close by. You feel her like ice cubes dragged down your spine. _{I can fix this. You just need to give me a chance before you kill somebody!}_

Her answer is a rattling sound, growing louder, coming from the kitchen. Crashing, cracking, the ceramic explosions of plates thrown to the floor. Lunch tables twitch and shudder around you. By the door, Tucker yelps as the trash cans bump and slide across the tile.

“What’s she doing?” He shouts. A wind has risen, tugging at his clothes, stealing his words away. It doesn’t touch you at all.

_{I don’t know. Just stay low and wait until--}_

She appears out of nowhere, slaps you out of the air like you’re nothing more annoying than a fly. You slide across the floor bonelessly, your legs melting away in the shock. All the ghost-funny colors saturate, achingly bright, until your head stops spinning. Six blocks away, you’re pretty sure you just earned yourself a nasty headache.

**_{I control lunch!}_ ** She bites out through teeth like broken glass. **_{Lunch is sacred. Lunch has rules!}_ **

You laugh at her. _{This is a public high school, lady. Lunch isn’t that big a deal.}_

This is probably not the smartest thing you could have said. She _roars_ , a huge and thundering sound, that hits you like a physical blow. You whole ghostly form trembles with a pain your human body feels, lungs like wet paper bags, your vision going briefly, terrifyingly gray until she stops. The tables nearest her scatter like leaves in the wind. Ceiling tiles fall to the floor, fluorescent lights popping and shattering. Tucker shouts, but he doesn’t sound like he’s hurt.

You don’t let her do that again. Shaking off your dizziness, you tackle her, drag her screaming to the ground. Your fingers bite through her-- clothes? Skin?-- like she’s made out of tissue paper even as her fist gets you in the ribs. Six blocks away, your body wheezes weakly. There’s a brief struggle, fists and feet striking vulnerable places in each other, lunch tables knocked aside like they’re made out of Styrofoam. Sticky green fluid leaks everywhere. She gasps, wetly, and struggles out of your grip.

Spiderweb cracks appear under her hands, her red eyes bulging as she looks at you like she’s seeing you for  the first time. _{What_ **_are_ ** _you?}_

You have no idea how to answer that, so you don’t bother. _{Tucker, now!}_

“Get out of the way!”

You kick upwards, bouncing like a helium balloon against the broken ceiling just as a beam of blinding blue light hits the lunch lady square in the chest. She makes that crumpling newspaper groan again and her bleeding form _disintegrates_ , falls apart into green and white starlight as she’s vacuumed up into the Thermos with a metallic scraping sound that makes both sets of your ears ring.

When she’s gone, the cafeteria seems a lot darker. It is, in a word, wrecked. You really hope there aren’t any cameras or anything.

“Holy shit,” Tucker breathes. He’s holding the Thermos away from his body like it’s a live grenade, the red Occupied light blinking between his fingers. He looks up at you warily. “Are-- are you okay? You’re _dripping_.”

_{I think so.}_ It’s hard to tell because you can’t feel anything, but if she hurt you it wasn’t bad enough to….

You don’t know how to finish that sentence. If she’d really hurt you, what would have happened? Would you just zip back into your body? Would you end up, somehow, in the Ghost Zone? You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

_{C’mon. Let’s get out of here.}_

“Way ahead of you,” Tucker says, already halfway out the back door. You trail after, dripping green.

* * *

The weekend is quiet. Tucker doesn’t come by and your parents don’t tell you anything. There’s bruising on your ribs and down your face you couldn’t hide from them, and they think you fell down trying to walk on your own. Your dad is disappointed and your mom is terrified, and they’re both angry at you for almost getting hurt again. Jazz won’t even look at you. You don’t tell them what really happened. You let them make their assumptions and the whole house stews in an uneasy silence.

You get a lot of reading done, wishing you could touch a phone without short circuiting it.

Monday afternoon finally rolls around, and when your bedroom door opens Sam’s the first one to walk through. She looks fine. She looks totally, completely fine.

“Tucker told me what you did,” she whispers, once the door is shut and they’ve both sat down. Her hand burns yours, squeezes tightly as her eyes trace the bruise on your cheek that’s gone a splotchy purple and brown.

“I hope he made it sound impressively heroic,” you joke.

Tucker grins. “You know I’m a terrible liar.”

“He didn’t have to lie,” Sam replies with a roll of her eyes. “The cafeteria is totally trashed! It looks like there was an earthquake or something.”

“Are they still talking about closing the school?”

“Well, there’s gonna be an investigation,” Tucker says. “And the principal said they’re gonna switch back to the old menu too. That is _a-okay_ with me if it means the lunch lady from hell won’t make any reappearances.” He looks around your room, no doubt looking for the Thermos. “What’d you do with her anyway?”

“I put her back in the Ghost Zone,” you say. It took you like an hour to limp down there after you gave up trying to poltergeist the Thermos down to your parents’ lab-- you kept dropping it, and even on carpet it made too much noise. It felt like the right thing to do, even if you’re still sore as hell from pushing yourself so hard.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Tucker asks nervously. “What if she’s gonna, I dunno, have a grudge against you now or something?”

“All she cared about was the menu. I think I’ll be okay.” You look at Sam, easing your hand out of hers. It was really starting to burn. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m fine.” You raise an eyebrow. “Really, I am. I think just about everybody who was sick is doing okay now too.” She laughs. “I’m so bummed I missed seeing a real ghost because I was too busy puking my guts out!”

You wiggle your ghostly fingers at her. “What, am I not ghost enough for you?”

“Not by _half_ ,” she grins.

You grin back and slip out of your body, as easy as pulling off your sheets. Sam gasps, jumping to her feet as your whole room is stained in shimmering aquarium greens. You do a little twirl, to show off, and look down at Tucker. _{How long do you think it’ll be before I get to fight another ghost?}_

“Not long enough,” he says, and stands up to lock your door again.


End file.
